Tacks For Snacks
by lookskindagreyout
Summary: Walter gives Peter some 'apart' time, and Peter observes Walters odd 'collection', only to find himself a part of it.
1. Chapter 1

'Tag!

I'm wondering, now, if I wrote this angry. I am unsure, as I am in a good mood, currently. If I did, why did I take it out on Walter? He's quite abuseable. But such things simply must be written, forgoing the consequence. I'm sure you understand, or simply don't care. Peter and Walter need to patch things up somehow. You know…eventually.

*I do not own Fringe, and the fact that the events and characters in this fiction seem to fall in sync to it is purely coincidental. It was not planned. Like my birth. : D

Chapter one.

"Psst."

He felt his eyes slide open a crack, and shut them again, the dark registering night in his mind. Night, for sleep… A premature instinct of all naturally sane creatures.

"Psst. Peter." Something touching his shoulder, a gentle nudge. At first, he thought it may have been a woman, but the prodding continued, and he realized he was single. Woman weren't attracted to a guy with…

"Peter, I'm really sorry, but I'm hungry."

"Eat your Pez, Walter," Peter grumbled, folding the pillow around his head.

"I'm out of Pez. And I ate the leftovers in the refrigerator, too."

"You wouldn't eat so much if you just _slept_, you freak," Peter growled, "Just make something. And go to sleep, for the _love_ of _god_…"

There was silence for a few moments, and Peter felt himself dozing off again when his father asked, "…What do I make?"

"Alright, I'm up!" Peter said, sitting up. He kicked the blankets away, dislodging Walter from his perch to land on the floor with a thump.

"Ouch," Walter complained softly, knowing not to make a fuss now that he had acquired his way.

Scratching his stomach, Peter made his way down the hall and into the tiny kitchenette of the hotel room, swinging open the cabinet door with a smart crack. He reached inside, grabbing an instant ramen and pulling it out, "Do you see this?" He questioned flatly, holding the cup up in front of Walter's face, "This is food, you moron. Now make it." And he smacked it against his fathers' chest, "We keep food in cabinets, so you know where to look, next time."

Walter looked mildly offended, but left his thoughts silent; a rarity.

"Microwave, sink. Forks in the drawer," Peter pushed him toward the appliances, "Goodnight." And Peter turned away.

"Um," Walter interrupted, and Peter turned back to him sharply.

"Listen. I NEED SLEEP. It may not make a difference what time it is, to you, but we haven't all been in a lightless institution for a million freaking years, okay?!"

"Do you want one?" Walter asked quietly.

Peter paused, feeling his pulse surge a vein on his forehead as he bit the inside of his cheek until in bled, "Sure, Walter. Wonderful. We'll make it a tea party. You can be the Hatter."

"Your sarcasm stings, but still leaves my question unanswered."

"_God_ I hate you!" Peter cried, pulling at his own mussed bangs, and he swept away, back to his bedroom, slamming the door. Walter took a seat at the counter, situating his bathrobe and pajamas patiently. The door slammed open again, and Peter emerged in the kitchen, snatching the ramen from his father and ripping it open, "You'd better like chicken, all we have is chicken!" He snarled.

"Chicken is fine, thank you," Walter smiled.

"I'm not doing this for you, okay?! I'm just too pissed off to sleep!" He continued to fill the Styrofoam cup with tap water, slamming it into the microwave.

"Agreeably so."

"And you're such an idiot, you'd burn me alive in my sleep!"

"It's a possibility."

Peter gripped Walter by the collar and shook him angrily, "If you agree with me _one more time_, I'll throw you crazy, old ass out the window, understand?! UNDERSTAND?!"

Walter looked at a loss, "What do you want me to say?!" He cried at last, "I don't _want _to go out of the window, Peter!"

"_Unbelievable!" _Peter released his collar, slamming his fist into the cabinetry. He let out a yelp, the surface being more solid than he had anticipated, and he cradled his hand to his chest. There was silence for a few moments, interrupted only by the nagging hum of the microwave.

"Are you alright, Peter?" Walter asked softly.

"No, Walter, I'm not. I can't take this anymore. I can't take _you_ anymore. I think I'm going crazy, and my hand hurts like a bitch, okay?" Peter slumped against the cabinet, his eyes down turned as he struggled with his impulse to rip his father to pieces.

"Let me see your hand, Peter," Walter said, rising and reaching for his son, "You may have broken something."

"Don't touch me, you quack," Peter hissed softly, but he did not pull away as Walter took his hand in his own, and his palms were warm and callused with old burn scars, "I know I broke something."

"My heart doesn't count," Walter joked, his fingers moving calculatingly along Peter's knuckles, "Yes, I'd say you've fractured a few knuckles, broken your middle finger, as well. Boys will be boys, it's nothing that won't heal, in time," He sighed, "I'm going to need some bandages, to patch you up…"

"It's fine. Stop touching me."

Walter raised a brow, "You didn't inherit your fear of affection from me, did you?"

Peter glanced up sharply into his father's eyes, "Just your name. _Nothing_ more."

Walter looked shocked a few moments, and a despondent smile touched his lips, "Yes, I deserved that. At the very least I should be able to take the verbal bashing, since you've spared me the physical one."

"Why, Walter?" Peter whispered, and pulled away, returning to his room quietly.

Walter stared at his son's door for what seemed forever, his words swept away in the traitorous winds of his mind. So much to say. He didn't deserve to say it. He was raised from his dismay only when the microwave gave a chime.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two.

The rest of the night was uninterrupted, slurred dreams. Peter awoke at length to find his alarm clock had been dismantled, with a nail file, by the looks of the sorry timepiece. Irked, he showered and dressed. His hand was strangely numb.

"Walter, get up," he called into his fathers' room as he passed. Peter proceeded to prepare coffee, and ten minutes had passed when he began to grow concerned, "Walter?" he questioned, pushing open the door to the bedroom. The bed was empty and unmade. He proceeded to the closet, flicking on the overhead light in the tiny compartment. He blinked in confusion.

The closet was empty, but the corner of the carpet had been ripped up, and the floor paneling pried up to reveal a small cubby. His curiosity and alarm growing, Peter knelt in the closet, and he faintly smelled the scent of Walter's hair, with a hint of sweat. He pulled the carpet away, peeking into the niche.

"Peter," someone said, and he jumped, bumping his head into the wall. He hissed a curse, and looked up to see Olivia gazing down at him questioningly, "You know, a safety deposit box can keep things a lot safer," She said calmly.

"What? No- this isn't mine- well, I mean, I don't know what the hell it is. What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

"You're not the only one who can pick locks, you know. I've been calling you for hours- what's going on?"

Peter straitened, pushing his way out of the closet. He found his cell phone on the coffee table, carefully operated on, its parts placed out like a diagram of anatomy, "Damn it, Walter," He growled.

"Did I miss something?" Olivia questioned as Peter swept around the hotel room, checking the cabinets and corners, "What happened to your phone?"

"The same thing that happened to my alarm clock- Walter!" Peter called, and there was no answer. He was cursing again when he found a note on the refrigerator that read: _be back soon. ~W.,_ followed by a smiley face, "Oh, son of a bitch!" Peter cried, "The bastard drugged me and took off!"

_Think, now, what do the sane people do?_

Walter watched traffic quietly as he meandered slowly and aimlessly down the sidewalk, taking in the warm morning sunlight. He didn't know where he was going, really. But Peter needed an off day, and he'd give him his space. He just had to be careful.

Abruptly, Walter stepped off the curb, jogging hurriedly across the street. He glanced around- no one seemed to have noticed. Good, good, that meant normal people did that, too. He just had to watch the people, do what they did, and not draw too much attention to himself. His plan would work.

He didn't know where he was, but somehow, it felt good to be lost. He felt less alone.

Walter had stopped on a bridge, gazing down at the water below. He spotted a dropped, dirty safety pin at his feet and stooped to collect it, hiding it quickly in the breast pocket of his coat and glancing around guiltily, as if at any moment, someone might take it back from him. He sighed, and thought of breakfast. Perhaps ice cream, if he remembered to eat at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three.

"What the hell is it, anyways?" Peter was grumbling as Olivia carefully lifted away the carpet in the closet. Slowly, she slid her hand into the narrow space, and paused, sitting back with a thump. Her face was blanched and here eyes were wide with shock.

"Peter… Walter is worse off than we thought," She said, swallowing dryly. She grasped a handful of the contents of the cubby and held it out to him.

"What the hell…?" Peter took the handful from her, examining it closely, "It's just _junk_. Paperclips, batteries, string…rocks…hey, that's my missing shirt button…do you think it was rats?"

Olivia shook her head, "Do you know why they put Walter into solitary confinement, even though he isn't physically dangerous? His file says he was prone to _stealing_ things. Small things, things no one would notice, and they took it as a threat that he might somehow use them to escape. He kept them…" Olivia stood, the rest of the tidbits in her palm. They consisted if a broken pencil, a few rubber bands, and a surgical clip, "in a small cubby he had ripped into his mattress. The cleaning people found them, one day."

"So?" Peter questioned, "He used to do it all the time, when I was a kid. Walter was always a klepto, it's nothing new. I thought he'd gotten a handle on it."

"Not a kleptomaniac. It's not a desire to steal, it's a desire to _possess._"

Peter watched her blankly, "I don't get it."

Olivia sighed, stepping out of the closet, "I used to see it all the time, working with kids. Children that came from abusive, empty homes…really terrible situations…would just take things, simply to _have_ something."

Peter frowned with concern, "So, you're saying that Walter collects junk so he can own it?"

"Sort of. All I can say is that he won't be happy when he knows we've found him out, as these people tend to be very aggressive with their 'possessions'. Walter is reverting, and that means that he may get dangerous. We have to find him."

Walter paused to drop a dollar into the open instrument case of a street performer that stood beside the park fountain, plucking out a guitar tune for change, "Bless you, sir," the stranger murmured, and Walter smiled at him.

Walter's aimless travels had brought him here, wherever here was. He'd only drawn attention to himself a few times, for such things as nearly bursting into tears when he dropped his ice cream cone on the subway, and relentlessly pressing the safety button at crosswalks and giggling at the beeping noise.

But, so far, so good. All but for the hollow loneliness that seemed to be expanding in his chest. At first it had been a thrill, being out and on his own, as he had not been so in many years, but now, he felt watched, observed as if under a microscope, and it annoyed him. He half wished he was back at the lab.

Walter squinted up at the bright noon sun, above the tree tops. He pulled off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, wondering quietly if anyone would see the scars… he pushed his wristwatch over them and forgot.

He cleared his throat, and the sudden noise shocked him slightly. He hadn't made a sound in nearly an hour, as he wandered the city. His knees hurt, and he thought about stopping in to watch a matinee at a movie theater. He shook his head, he had better things to do; he'd been denied his freedom for so long, he didn't know just _what_ to do with himself. It was nearly lunch, and he rather looked forward to scouting out just exactly what he wanted, which changed often. Usually Peter would select lunch for him, bypassing his indecision.

Walter sighed. _It would be better, if Peter were here. Funny, as I never thought to do such things, during his childhood. But my father…_

Walter shook his head quickly, clearing his thoughts. He hefted his jacket onto his shoulder and slid his other hand into his pocket, and he felt his cell phone hum against his fingers, and he pulled it out, watching the tiny machine curiously. He couldn't remember just how to answer, he had to slide it open, or press something…the cell phone stopped buzzing, and the digital message popped up on the screen; _47 missed calls_. Shrugging, Walter returned it to his pocket.

He had crossed the park and arrived at an indoor mall, deciding to walk the wrong way down the escalator.


	4. Chapter 4

Final chapter.

"He's not answering," Peter grumbled, returning Olivia's phone to her, "it's not turned off, though."

Olivia shook her head as she slowed the car to a stop at the intersection, "We can't track him unless he picks up. Don't worry, I'll call David, and tell him to send out a bulletin to the local precincts. We'll have him in no time."

"I'm not worried," Peter grumbled, "But you do remember that the last time Walter decided to go on a city safari, I had twelve hundred volts of electricity up my nose?"

Olivia laughed, "True. What possessed him, this time, do you know?"

"Uh, _hello_- the man is mentally insane, with the social graces of a four-year-old. Does he need any other reason?" Peter glared out the window, "…And we had another fight, last night."

Olivia glanced over at him, "I see."

"Hey, I'm not the guilty one, here. He got me up in the middle of the night to make him a snack, and I just snapped, okay?" Peter sighed, "Any rational individual would have done the same thing."

"Is that what happened to your hand?" Olivia asked as the light turned green, and they continued on.

Peter glanced down at his hand, wrapped with bandaging. "Yes."

Olivia was silent for a few moments, "What happened to him?" She questioned gently.

"I _didn't_ hit Walter," Peter growled, glaring at her, "I punched a cabinet. I was really angry, alright?!"

"The thought hadn't occurred to me," Olivia said obligingly, "But do you think you may have frightened Walter?"

Peter shook his head, his fingers finding his temples, "No. I just yelled at him. I told him he was driving me crazy- and he is, you know. I don't have a second to myself, anymore…"

"You told him that?" Olivia said, "Listen, I don't want to be family mediator, here, but I think this may be Walter's misplaced attempt at giving you your space."

Peter stared at her, "You think? I know that, Olivia. He's my dad- I hate it, when I understand him, but I do. But what I am worried about is the poor mugger that doesn't know what he's getting into, when Walter makes him an experiment."

The security personnel had been awfully kind, he had to admit. They were quite forgiving, or, _had_ been. He couldn't decide if it had been shoplifting jellybeans or his unique questionings about piercings to a young woman with a Mohawk that they had considered unruly behavior, but they seemed quite agitated at him, now.

Walter peeked out of the curtains of the photo booth as the guard passed, huffing in his large uniform as his puffy, overweight cheeks were splotched with red. The guard did not look back at him.

Walter let out a sigh, looking back inside, "He's gone."

The two Asian girls only stared at him, terrified.

"Thanks a lot. Sorry I had to interrupt your photos, sorry," He climbed out of the booth, bowing numerous times, "Thanks again. Have a nice day," and he scampered off in the opposite direction that the security guard had gone. The girls watched him go, at a complete loss.

When he emerged outside the clothing retailer, he found it was nearly sundown. He blinked, and sighed. _Has a day been long enough? I wonder if Peter had fun, today. I hope he did._

_Truthfully, this is getting a bit dull. But I'm alive, so I guess-_

Walter let out a cry as someone grabbed his arm, twisting it around behind his back and crushing it to his shoulder blades. He felt the air rush from his lungs as his knees were swept from him, and he landed on the sidewalk chest down. He tasted blood on the inside of his bitten cheek.

"Don't move, you bastard!" Peter hissed in his ear, "I've got to call Olivia, and tell her I've got you." Walter let out a grunt of pain as Peter sat on him, holding him in place with his knee as he flipped open a loner cell phone, dialing, "Do you have any idea how worried you've got everyone?!" Peter demanded.

"Peter!" Walter said happily, his voice muffled by asphalt, "I was just thinking about you."

"Hello, Olivia? Yeah, I've got him. Outside 'Vodka'. No, he's fine. Alright, see you." Peter flipped the phone shut, "What the hell were you thinking, Walter?! Going out on your own is dangerous, okay? Never pull this crap again!"

"Sorry," Walter answered, wincing.

Peter sighed, at last letting his father up from the pavement. Walter rubbed his sore shoulder as Peter helped bat the dirt from his clothes, "You had me worried, Walter," Peter said at last.

"Thank you," Walter replied. They stood in silence, "…I didn't mean any ill, Peter. It's just that…I want you to be happy. I really do."

"Hey…" Peter reached into his pocket, drawing out a handful Walter's 'possessions', "Are these yours?"

Walter stiffened, his face flushing as anger flicked hotly in his chest, "Give those back, Peter," He said evenly, "Please give them back."

Peter returned the items to his pocket, "No."

Walter felt his lips draw away from his teeth in hostility, "Give them back _now_," He growled.

"You don't need these, Walter," Peter replied, watching him carefully, "Olivia told me that you keep little things like this because you think possessions are worth something."

"Jesus, Olivia knows?! Give them _back_, Peter!" Walter stepped forward in challenge, his voice tight with fear and embarrassment. Peter thought he sounded like a child contesting a bully.

"Back off," Peter warned, "Walter, you need to know that-- that things like this don't mean anything. It's just junk."

"It's not junk, it's _mine_!" Walter snapped, "You have no idea what you're talking about, now return the items to me immediately."

"Not gonna happen," Peter answered.

Walter lunged for his sons' chest, only to find himself on the pavement once more, wriggling under Peter's weight, "Calm the hell down, Walter!" Peter said firmly, "Can't you get it through your head- you don't need that, because you have _me_!"

Walter blinked, panting.

"Why can't I be enough, Walter? Why can't I be the one thing you want to keep? Am I second to thumbtacks, to you?!"

"I can't _have_ you!" Walter cried, feeling close to tears, "You're a man now, Peter! I had my chance, and I screwed it up! It doesn't matter how hard I fight, you'll never come back to me!"

Peter's weight lifted from him, and Walter pushed himself onto all fours, covering his eyes with his forearm, "You're wrong," Peter said softly, watching him, "You're just going to give up again? That easily?"

"I didn't say that," Walter replied, "I didn't say I've given up. I'll fight forever, because at the very least, that's what you deserve from me." he sat back on his ankles, and looked up at his son, "The least I can give you is the rest of what I am."

"So you fight for nothing."

Walter bowed his head.

"Because you've won." Peter turned away, gazing out distantly at the darkening parking lot before them, and he scratched the back of his neck in annoyance, growling, "Get off the ground, you're embarrassing me."

Walter stared at him for a few moments, and sheepishly got to his feet, "Yes…I suppose I am." He dusted his knees, "I'm sorry, Peter." Peter didn't know just exactly what Walter was apologizing for.

"What?" Peter asked, as his father touched his shoulder. Walter dropped the safety pin into his hand.

"Put this with the rest," he murmured, smiling softly, "I'd like to keep all of you together, so I don't loose you again."

Peter chuckled quietly, "Just don't go cramming me into a hole in the floor, okay?"

"The thought _had_ crossed my mind."

"Let's go, Walter." Peter pushed him on the shoulder toward the storefront.

"…Not back into the shopping centre, please. I've- well, there was some trouble, earlier…it's probably best we stay outside."

"Walter, what did you- oh, _never mind_. Where do you want to eat, tonight?"

"I had the best Monte Cristo sandwich, one time…"Walter mused as Peter rested his elbow on his fathers' shoulder.

"I've heard this one. The diner in San Jose, right?"

"…Oh, um. Yes. So…I suppose there's no chance of getting one, is there?"

"Nope."

"Hmm. I don't want anything."

"Are you serious? You're not hungry? Are you ill?"

"Well, now that you mention it, ramen sounds alright…"

END.


End file.
